Battle Royal Page 10

  An odd, unfamiliar sensation was prickling at his spine. Not quite impatience, not quite discomfort. Literally shrugging it off, Dominic rather curtly addressed her original observation. “Maybe it’s personal.”

  She cocked her head.

  He could be at home right now with a glass of lager, his homicidal cat, and no constantly talking people. “Maybe Jay and Mabel are skating around an always-inadvisable workplace relationship,” he clarified. “According to my sister and the book she’s currently reading and for some reason thinks I need a daily briefing on, squabbling like enraged parakeets is an early sign of attraction.”

  “In the nonfictional world, it might be easier to skip the verbal pigtail-pulling and just ask someone out for a drink.”

  They finished their flagons, and he scribbled down a few more ingredients.

  Cranberry juice.

  White chocolate.

  Raising a hand, he asked the barista for a third round.

  A spark of wicked humor suddenly lit up the green in Sylvie’s eyes. She grinned. “Jay and Mabs—God help the entire planet. But despite the lessons of literature, courtesy of this book I’m privately convinced you’re reading yourself, that’s a negative on pissing me off because they secretly want to bang. Mabel’s asexual and already in a committed relationship, and Jay has a girlfriend.” After a beat, her brows compressed. “I think. I just realized he hasn’t mentioned her for a couple of weeks. He’s still writing poetry, though, so I assume they’re still together.”

  Intense gloom invaded that sentence.

  “Poetry?”

  “He writes poems. He reads them aloud for feedback. It’s a deeply distressing subject for me. I don’t want to talk about it.”

  A small smile tugged. It felt like the first minuscule release of tension all day. “You said you were having an actual staffing problem.”

  “Yeah.” All traces of smiles on Sylvie’s part fell away. “My intern, Penny. She’s really struggling with the work. I’ve had to move her to four different stations so far, and nothing seems to be clicking. It’s not an issue of effort—she is trying.” On a very dry note, she added, “Every mistake is made with an impressive level of enthusiasm.”

  “So she’s not suited to the job.”

  “But she wants to be.” Sylvie caught her lower lip between her teeth. He’d been right about Pet’s silhouette drawing falling short on the full curve of her mouth. “And I get the feeling there’s something going on outside of work. She’s frequently distracted, and a couple of times she’s taken a phone call and seemed odd afterward. Jay’s over it and wants to let her go, but if the rest of her life is falling apart, I don’t want her to be unemployed as well.”

  His answering grunt was neither agreement nor immediate dismissal. “I’ve got an employee myself with extenuating circumstances that we’ll do our best to accommodate.”

  “You see.” Sylvie leaned forward, brightening. Her right hand tried to twitch in his direction again. She sat on it. “You get it.”

  That was probably the most genuine smile she’d ever directed at him.

  “In my case, the employee in question has a lot of talent when he’s in the right mind to access it, and is very definitely in the right field,” he said warningly, and Sylvie blew out a breath. “Do you think your employee might be having family issues?”

  She shook her head. “She doesn’t have any family. It came up at her interview. Her parents have passed, no brothers or sisters, no eccentric aunts, no drunk uncles. Not even a cat.”

  Despite the light, lilting addition at the end, a strange note underlaid Sylvie’s response.

  It was in her eyes, too. Pain. A deep well of emotions that coalesced into, simply, pain.

  “I see,” Dominic said.

  She blinked a few times, and a self-conscious stiffness came into her posture.

  Two more portions of Midnight Elixir were delivered to their bit of floor. They both knocked them back like huge shots of tequila.

  Simultaneously decided to order another.

  “If your employee is wise enough to live a cat-less existence,” he said at last, while they waited for the next round, “it may be worth keeping her on.”

  He pulled back his sleeve and revealed a long, angry scratch slicing through the hair on his forearm.

  Sylvie’s expression cleared of shadows as concern yanked her back to the present. This time, she seized hold of his arm without hesitation, her fingers wrapping gently about his wrist as she pulled it into her lap. His own fingers curled into a light fist. “Oh my God. What kind of pet do you have?” she asked, horrified. “A Bengal tiger?”

  “Similar bulk, worse temperament. A tabby menace, inherited from a relative whose affection for me has since been called into question.”

  “I hope you put something on this; it’s really nasty. What provoked that?”

  “The vet suggested I cut his dry food allotment by a quarter cup. Humphrey suggested I get sepsis.”

  Her fingertips were absently stroking the back of his hand, another glide along his nerve pathways.

  The barista approached with two more flagons of Midnight Elixir, and Sylvie released him to grab the drinks.

  Her cheeks were flushed again.

  She took a hasty gulp from her cup. “Definitely cranberry,” she said aloud.

  “Agreed.” His own mouthful was a more intense throat-burn than the last glass. The barista returned behind the counter, and he studied the array of treats in the glass cabinet. They ran a gamut from children’s party fare to wouldn’t-even-feed-it-to-his-hellcat. “Is the owner of this place really ripping off your menu?”

  “Yes, and with the exception of this . . .” Sylvie waved her flagon at him. Her voice was slightly slurred. She really was pink in the face. “. . . this fantastic concoction, he doesn’t even have the decency to plagiarize well. It’s like a counterfeit purse, all cheap plastic and bad stitching. And freaky clowns.”

  “Pretty shit of him.” The tension was draining out of his muscles, and his headache had eased somewhat as his body relaxed.

  “I know,” Sylvie agreed fervently. She leaned forward and pointed at him. Having stuck her finger in his face, she didn’t seem to know what to do with it.

  Dominic considered the problem. “I should punch him.”

  She looked absolutely thrilled. “Could you?”

  “Of course I could,” he said, vaguely offended. He held up a hand. Fisted it. “I have hands.” He turned his wrist to examine his fist from multiple angles. It was very satisfactory. “Big ones.”

  “Yes, you do.” In the dim light, Sylvie’s wide eyes looked more black than hazel. “Huge. I’ve noticed that before.” The last words dropped, low and husky.

  Sexy.

  “Have you?” Deep. Gravelly.

  She nodded solemnly and put her fingers back over his, and they studied the result.

  “Your hand is quite small,” he had to point out.

  Her sigh was all sad resignation. “It is.” Her lower lip was pink and damp. She sank her teeth into it again. “I’m sorry about that.”

  His view of anything farther than her head was beginning to haze. Dominic’s brain was currently fixed on one subject, but a spike of suspicion penetrated.

  Over their entwined fingers, they stared at each other. He could see the movement of her chest with her quiet, quick breaths. A loose clot of mascara clung to the end of one lash, and her eyes really were quite . . .

  Dilated.

  Sitting there with Sylvie’s hand in his, her herb-scented breath a warm tickle against his chin, he saw a reflection of his own rapidly dawning realization.

  Releasing her, Dominic reached for his tablet. With a decisive motion, he deleted the top line.

  Across from him, Sylvie retrieved her stylus pen and her phone. As it clicked on, she picked up the flagon by her foot and set it aside with an emphatic thud. The nearly empty flagon. Their fourth helping. She drew a crisp line and made the necessary a
mendment.

  Midnight Elixir’s mystery ingredient number one: not star anise.

  A grim murmur, in unison: “Absinthe.”

  Chapter Eight

  Hartwell Studios

  Contestants Eliminated: 3

  Contestants Quitting: 1

  Contestants Crying: 1, but give Judge C a chance. He’s not even properly awake yet.

  Judges Hungover: 2

  Nadine from Bucks needed to leave the Operation Cake studio and hook an immediate turn into the casting office for Days Gone By. With that wavy hair and uptilted eyebrows, she even looked like the fictional family in the long-running soap opera. And she’d nailed their signature acting technique. Gaze into the distance. Deep, shuddering breath. Close eyes. Square shoulders. Exude aura of self-sacrificial courage. And—scene.

  “I’ll always be grateful for this experience,” Nadine said tearfully into Camera B. Her breath quivered inward again. She pressed her palm to her chest. Her apron, pretty floral top, and neck were all splattered in lumpy cake batter. “But it’s made me realize where I truly need to be right now. With my family. I miss my husband. I miss Roget.”

  “Roget?” Mariana asked over Sylvie’s shoulder. Her mouth was full of Victoria sponge. They’d both been going back for thirds and fourths of Emma Abara’s exquisite morning bake. The cake was light, fluffy, and one of the best Victoria sponges Sylvie had ever eaten. It more than compensated for Emma’s disastrous first round.

  And it was creating a nice spongy layer in Sylvie’s stomach to soak up the remnants of alcohol.

  “Her parrot.”

  “The beaky resurrection of Caesar? I thought it had taken that last great plummet from its perch.”

  “That was Roget’s predecessor.”

  “Are you okay?” Mariana licked the cream from her fingers and peered at her. “You look a bit peaky.”

  “Unintentional absinthe binge.” Sylvie could still taste anise in the back of her throat when she swallowed.

  Thanks to Darren Clyde using the world’s smallest font to warn of extreme alcoholic content, she’d held hands with Dominic, gushed over his . . . hugeness, and woken up with the mother of all headaches.

  “Wow. You other judges really know how to party. Dominic’s also exuding alcohol fumes.” Mariana inclined her head toward Dominic, who was currently staring at the lighting fixture over Nadine’s head. Probably hoping it would collapse and bring this endless monologue to a conclusion, so they could break for lunch. Sylvie needed coffee, stat. There had been a bowl of cold espresso on a benchtop for a contestant’s trifle, and she’d come dangerously close to just dropping her whole head in and absorbing the caffeine like a sponge.

  “Even he doesn’t have the bone structure to pull off the vampiric red eyes.” Mariana reached into the pocket of her tunic and pulled out a folded napkin. She unwrapped it, revealing several more pieces of cake she’d been hoarding. “And his normal mood is sufficiently unattractive without a hangover dragging us all into the deeper pits of hell.”

  Sylvie had been trying not to look at or speak to Dominic all day. She was . . . Honestly, she was a bit horrified. There was a unique mortification in revealing private pieces of yourself to someone who truly didn’t give a shit.

  Even if he could be surprisingly nice when he was sozzled.

  When she peeked at him again now, she saw that he was very red around the eyelids. She was fairly sure her entire insides were a similarly angry shade. It felt like she’d scoured her gut with steel wool.

  If she’d ever been youthful enough to tolerate absinthe, those days had passed. Cranky Crone could not handle her booze.

  Nadine finally wrapped up her lengthy resignation speech. The moment the cameras clicked off, she turned and stalked toward Libby’s station.

  The other woman was watching the departing contestant with that same teensy smile she’d directed at Byron before his elimination. She was still currently in the lead, just to add to the hellfire of this day. That little twitch to her lips was infuriating—and apparently not just to Sylvie.

  “I hope you’re happy.” Nadine’s jaw set tight as she stopped in front of the countertop. “You nasty little cow.”

  With no warning, she picked up the remains of Libby’s unfortunately perfect toffee cream tart and shoved it straight in its creator’s face.

  Sylvie had never seen anything like it—the gelatin in the tart held so well that almost the entire contents of the tin transferred smoothly to Libby. Two beady eyes were glaring out of an otherwise largely intact circle of toffee.

  When the eyes blinked and Libby’s new face slid off like the Wicked Witch melting into the pavers of Oz, Mariana succumbed to a coughing fit, spraying crumbs over Sylvie’s shoulder. Hazard of screeching with surprised laughter while stuffing one’s face.

  Even Dominic’s eyebrows had shot up.

  “Did we get that on camera?” a voice asked urgently behind her, and a lighting pole poked her in the back of the head as the crew scrambled into action.

  “No.”

  “Fuck.”

  Within earshot of the contestants, it was all consoling, tactful comments as the production staff began soothing Libby’s wounded feelings and getting her a towel. More helpful people rushed after Nadine, who was stalking off set, tossing back her hair.

  On a scale of one to ten, how unprofessional would it be to applaud?

  “What was that about?” Mariana asked in a low voice.

  “Somehow I don’t think Libby’s character matches her face.”

  “Well, nobody could be that ingenuous, could they?” the other judge intoned cynically. She looked down at her hands. “I need more cake.”

  “I know. Most of your previous slice is sliding into my best bra.”

  “Wowzer,” a new voice said as Mariana made a beeline for the food tables. Speaking of ingenuous, those tones were so soft and melodious, a Disney princess might have hopped the Channel from Disneyland Paris and gone for a wander. “Talk about upping the drama ante,” the newcomer continued. “Last season, it was thrilling if someone dropped an egg.”

  Not so much Rapunzel, Sylvie discovered when she turned around, as a young Phryne Fisher. The woman grinning at her was midtwenties-ish, with fine-boned, fairylike features, a short, glossy bob of black hair, and crisply outlined red lipstick. Even her clothing was vintage.

  “Hello, Sylvie,” the very pretty girl said, shoving a hand toward her. “I am stupendously pleased to meet you, o genius behind that fabulous creation across the road. Which sadly I can never step foot in, because my flag is planted squarely in enemy territory. I’m Pet De Vere. Dominic’s beloved sister.”

  Her cheery tone took a decided dip into sarcasm on those last two words. And ironically made the sibling relationship more believable.

  “She of the incredible talent with a piece of paper and a pair of scissors,” Sylvie said, shaking Pet’s hand. A few painful dregs of hangover were brushed aside by curiosity. Dominic was more than a few years older than his sister—and light-years apart in personality from this perky, wee sprite. “Wee” being the operative word. She was at least six inches shorter than Sylvie.

  Some of that buoyancy in Pet’s face had faded as Sylvie spoke, morphing into something more complex. “Oh,” she said, a bit uncertainly. “Has he actually . . . Has he mentioned me?”

  She glanced across to the studio to where Dominic was deep in conversation with the executive producer. As he was probably purposely not looking in Sylvie’s direction, he also hadn’t seen Pet yet.

  “He gave Mariana a silhouette portrait you cut of her.” Sylvie must be almost a decade older than Pet, but she didn’t want to be condescending. Nevertheless, she found her voice gentling. “She showed it to me. You’re extremely talented. Are you a full-time artist?”

  “Thank you.” Pet cleared her throat. “No, I’m not. I’m a full-time PA, and right now I’m temping for Dominic while his executive assistant is out on sick leave.” She held up an envelop
e. “Hence the personal delivery service with urgent documents he needs to sign.”

  “Well, if you ever wanted to practice art as a profession, you could. We’re all jealous of Mariana’s portrait. Count me in if you ever need a model.”

  “Sure. Anytime” was the response after a noticeable pause and a slightly odd glance.

  “Pet!” Mariana returned with more cake and offered them both a piece. “How nice to see you again. Have you come to watch the filming?”

  “Officially, and if my brother asks, no.” Pet tasted the cake and immediately brightened. “This is really good cake.”

  “Courtesy of Emma.” Mariana inclined her head to where most of the contestants were whispering amongst themselves. “In the red apron. Next to her in the blue apron is Adam. And the matchmaker here would like to see them team up over more than a group challenge.”

  They all watched as Emma leaned forward to wipe up a puddle of spilled lemon juice. She stumbled, and Adam just about threw himself across his neighboring station to grab hold of the bow in her apron strings. He pulled her back before she could fall and ended the performance with a reassuring pat on her upper arm. Emma said something, and he blushed on every visible patch of skin on his body.

  As he turned away, fiddling with his badly knotted tie, Emma self-consciously adjusted her glasses and patted the multitude of tiny braids twisted under her headscarf.